


dare you (to let me go)

by trololonasty



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Language, Mostly Canon Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, UST, complete denial, see notes for more, shameless flirting, slowly getting out of control, terminated, timeline: season 1 - 2-ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-04 23:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15851199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trololonasty/pseuds/trololonasty
Summary: It was just a game you’d been playing for years to no end. After all, you knew each other since forever – since, as you usually said, you happened to be dumb enough not to run away when you had the chance and got stuck with the Shelby family.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really sorry, guys, but as of now, the work is not going to be continued. Thank you so much for reading and waiting and appreciating it, it really means a lot to me, you've been the best! For all the newcomers: I've never got to write all of it that was (and still is) in my head, but I'm kind of happy with the way it ends. It may be a vague, sort of abrupt, open ending and the storylines aren't finished properly (again, I'm really sorry for that), but to my mind, it still fits and even makes sense, and I hope that you'll give it a shot and use your imagination to tie all the loose knots as you're pleased! Anyway, thanks again for spending your time on reading my hot garbage, I hope I'll see you again soon enough! :)

“Just tell me this,” you said, a bit annoyed, your nose buried in the ledgers with piles and piles of numbers that didn’t make any sense. “Were you dropped on your head when you were a child?”

“Don’t know.” Arthur shrugged nonchalantly. “You should ask Pol about that.”

You glared at him.

“You’re insufferable.”

He just waved it off, grinning as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“I know you love me.”

“Don’t sound so smug about it,” you huffed, returning your gaze to the load of work before you.

“For fuck’s sake, just get a room.” John announced his presence loudly, rolling his eyes at your bickering.

You smiled a bit. You always found it funny when people assumed that there was something going on between Arthur and you.

“Shut up, John,” you said.

“Yeah, shut the fuck up, Johnny boy,” Arthur backed your play, but he was smiling as well. “Y/N and I are just very good pals.”

You nodded slowly, rotating a pencil in your hand, a smirk appearing on your face.

“That we are.”

“Yeah, well, whatever.” John didn’t seem to buy it, but then again, hardly anyone ever did. “You do sound like an old married couple, though.”

“Fuck off,” you both advised him in unison, laughter followed. 

△ ▽

“So.” You looked over your shoulder to see Arthur sitting on the edge of your desk. “D’you want to go to the pictures or something? I hear they have a good one tonight.”

You turned to face him, visibly amused.

“Are you asking me out on a date? No one else’s there to keep you company?” You did love to tease him, but there was no need to read between the lines. After all, you knew each other since forever – since, as you usually said, you happened to be dumb enough not to run away when you had the chance and got stuck with the Shelby family. That was just how you were. 

You bit into the apple you’d got up to get and handed Arthur another in a considerate offer. He shook his head, and you shrugged, putting it back into the fruit bowl. 

“Would you say yes if I was?” he enquired in the same manner, although there was something off about him as if he didn’t wish for an honest answer. _But, of course, he didn’t_ , you chided yourself for being silly, _it was just a game you’d been playing for years to no end_. Maybe he was upset about something you weren’t aware of. That sounded like a plausible explanation – there were many things going on you never knew about.

You decided to let it slide. 

“Well,” you said, coming up to your desk and reclaiming your seat. You reached for the first drawer where you kept humbugs, handing Arthur a few. “I have plans for tonight, anyway. Maybe some other time.”

He gave you a strange look and put a sweet into his mouth.

“Plans, huh?”

“Yes.” You refused to elaborate. Last time you checked you still had a right for private life, not that you managed to have a lot of that in particular. Still, you didn’t like to think that you were somehow obliged to explain yourself even if you weren’t planning on doing anything he would now probably think you were.

You didn’t look up at him until now so you’d missed a curious change of expressions which took place in a very short span of time as your words registered although the change was so brief that it was no wonder – you couldn’t have known to look for it. Taking in his state as it was presented to you a moment later – seemingly casual but somewhat unsettled, you felt your heart soften.

“You can take me out of the city at the weekend if you like,” you suggested with a smile. “I could use some fresh air.”

“All right then,” he seemed to relax, a bit of uneasiness surrounding him lately gone. “I could use some of it myself.”

△ ▽ 

“Arthur Shelby! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You protested vigorously as you were lifted up without so little as a warning. 

He laughed lightly, and – the way he held you in his arms so close to him – you could feel it forming in the back of his throat. 

“I’m taking you for a swim. It’s blazing hot.”

“No way!” you screeched, clutching at his shirt with almost dread.

“Actually, this way,” he chuckled, slightly nodding his head in a particular direction. You wanted to bloody murder him. Possibly, strangle him with your bare hands.

“All right,” you finally grunted, knowing a lost battle when you saw one. “Let me at least take off my clothes, will ya?”

He gave you a quizzical look, but you met it with earnestness: you were so not riding back home with water dripping from all over you. He put you down on the bank, half-expecting you to go back on your word the moment your feet touched the ground, but you just huffed and started to undo the buttons on your blouse. He turned away rapidly.

“What’s this?” you scoffed, getting rid of the garment. “Are you modesty incarnate now, all of a sudden?”

“Just thought I’d give you some privacy.” He shifted his weight but didn’t turn around, still. 

“Oh, is it what it’s all about? My privacy?” You laughed a bit, raising your eyebrows, although he couldn’t possibly see it, and pulled down your skirt. “Good to know that that was what you had in mind getting me all undressed and wet.”

He risked a glance at you, sort of gulping when he saw you in nothing but underwear, and you suppressed a laugh but smirked, nevertheless. 

“It’s all right to look, just don’t stare,” you said, weirdly self-conscious and smug at the same time. Finally, he turned to face you, and you felt that he was fighting hard to keep his gaze on your eyes. 

A moment of tense silence passed, and you decided to spare him: after all, it was the thought that counted. You walked past him and straight into the water; a shiver travelled through your heated body when it came in contact with its soothing coolness. 

“You going to stand there all day?” you asked, raising your voice a little to make sure he heard you. It was getting cold. “I’m not going to wait for you forever.”

“I know,” he mumbled, as if thinking of something else entirely, while pulling off his clothes before joining you.

△ ▽

With the sun slowly going down, the heat of the afternoon subsided and the evening became rather pleasant. So pleasant, in fact, that you decided to ditch the car at the Garrison and walk to your place instead. It was all fun and games until you felt Arthur tense up. 

“What’s the matter?” you enquired, mostly concerned about his well-being. It hadn’t really been the same since the war so you’d grown accustomed to be always prepared for anything. 

“I think we might be being followed,” he murmured in an undertone. 

Reflexively, you tried to look back, but he stopped you with a steady hand on your arm. _It could have been a nice, slow evening, really. Was that so much to ask?_ You had no clue what business the Peaky Blinders were conducting nowadays and what enemies they could have made in the process so the idea of being stalked by someone – most likely a pissed off rival – didn’t provide much peace of mind. You snorted in annoyance, muttering something about the way to ruin a weekend under your breath.

Arthur took you by the hand and quickened his pace. Having close to no choice, you followed suit. You were practically running in no time, and you did so until you turned a corner and hid into a dark, narrow alley. By the time you reached your impromptu hideout, you had been completely out of breath. After several seconds, Arthur cautiously glanced at the street only to find that no one was there. You’d either lost whoever it was or it had been a false alarm altogether. 

“I think we’re good,” he announced, holding you tight. That particular alley wasn’t one for a private space.

“Oh, _you think_?” You were still huffing and puffing, the exercise had definitely given you an adrenaline rush. “I had to run across the city with no pants on, and it’s entirely your fault!”

You smacked his chest, although no real harm was intended. He seemed rather amused.

“Is it because I got you all undressed and wet?” He grinned like the cat that got the cream.

“Precisely.” Your palm met your forehead. “Trust a Shelby to have a nice, calm, relaxing weekend.”

He raised his eyebrows. 

“And where’s the fun in that, dear?” 

“Our definitions of ‘fun’ obviously differ,” you said with an eye roll. “Makes me wonder why I’m still stuck with you.”

He averted his gaze, suddenly going stiff. You placed a comforting hand on his arm, even though you couldn’t begin to guess what exactly had just happened.

“Well, that makes two of us.” He adopted a falsely cheerful tone, which he tended to do when he was upset. “You should choose your company more thoughtfully then. Maybe your Tuesday plans will do better.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” You frowned. 

He shrugged.

“Just a thought.” 

With that, he walked back to the street and in the direction of your house. Confused and a bit vexed, you silently followed.

△ ▽

Later that evening, after you had been graciously escorted home, the incident never mentioned or spoken of, Arthur walked in on John who was evidently in the middle of a life crisis or so it seemed; and like in any other series of unfortunate events, the first and most obvious choice of a way to deal with the problem was as simple as to drink oneself into a stupor to the point when you didn’t feel anything which subsequently made it impossible to give the faintest single damn. 

Looking him up and down, Arthur leaned against the door frame, reaching into his pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes.

“And what’s troubling our Johnny boy these days, eh?” He lit one up and took a puff. “Same old?”

John tried to stare at him but failed miserably because he kept losing focus. He was clearly far too intoxicated to appreciate even the slightest bit of humour.

“You can gloat all you want,” he snapped, slurring his words already, “but this is serious.”

“I bet it is.”

John looked suspicious when Arthur didn’t laugh at him as he expected him to, but decided to go on with it. 

“I’m a lousy father,” he sighed, clenching his half-empty glass so tightly it was a miracle it didn’t break to pieces. “I’m never around, and it’s not enough. And there is only so much Pol can do.”

“So, what you’re saying is you need a wife,” Arthur summed up, drawing on the cigarette and blowing out a cloud of smoke. “What’s all the fuss about then? Talk to Tommy, find yourself a nice girl.” He shrugged. “Or is there no one good enough for you?”

“If it were that simple, even you would have been married by now,” John grunted irritably.

Arthur gave a hearty laugh, idly playing with the chain of his pocket watch. 

“I very much doubt it. It’s really not my thing.”

“Well, I guess so,” John conceded after brief consideration. Thinking in his particular state was harder than usual so his speech became even more indistinct as if compensating for the intellectual effort. “It’s either that or you’re just incredibly stupid, passing up the chance to make a move on your great pal Y/N. You know, sooner or later, someone else will.” His smile faded, and Arthur’s face hardened. John, on the other hand, completely oblivious to his brother’s change of demeanour, looked like he had had an idea which in his hazy state of mind didn’t seem outrageous at all. “Hell, maybe I should ask _her_ to marry _me_. Since you don’t mind and all.”

“No,” he answered through gritted teeth, “I don’t. I wouldn’t give a shit even if you married a bloody whore.”

With that, he left. Behind him, the door closed with a loud slam, leaving John in a state of surprise which was too perplexed for him to fully comprehend right then.


	2. Chapter 2

“Well, it wasn’t all that bad,” you confided with a chuckle as Polly looked torn between bursting out laughing and lecturing you on safety policy. “The running part was quite fun.”

Polly just rolled her eyes.

“It always is until it isn’t,” she said with a knowing smile, grinding her cigarette into the ashtray. 

You supposed she was right – she often was. Polly was the voice of reason and a very wise woman indeed. 

“Mornin’, Pol. Y/N.” Arthur was evidently surprised to see you but pleasingly so. He looked untypically joyous for such an early hour, too – he always was a late riser, after all. 

“Your face is disgustingly beaming,” you informed him as a matter of fact, sipping at your tea. His about-turn attitude was getting old and, frankly, quite annoying although you did your best to cut him some slack, considering. It just wasn’t always easy. “Did you get some or what?”

He laughed heartily, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe that you would actually ask such a thing. Polly raised her eyebrows, slightly amused, but stayed silent. You continued to drink your tea, undisturbed.

“Tut-tut, Y/N,” he scolded you humorously, with his hands in his pockets. “Don’t be jealous. Besides, you should know that I don’t kiss and tell,” he added with a wink.

You rolled your eyes at his antics and put your cup on the table with composed indifference. 

“Jealous? Please. Besides,” your tone matched his, “you should know that were I ever to sleep with you, I’d have to have you medically cleared first. After all that kissing and not telling, you see.”

Polly gave a half-suppressed laugh at your comment, and your lips involuntarily twitched. You never could stay angry or displeased for too long, preferring to let off steam through sarcastic remarks which were mostly friendly and only a bit mocking. Arthur knew that; it was your way of getting things back on track without actually saying anything. 

“Ouch,” said Arthur, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That was a low blow, Y/N.”

Polly tittered once more. 

“Indeed it was.” She sent you a knowing look and sighed. “You’re such children sometimes, both of you.”

“Takes one to know one,” he remarked with a chuckle, giving his moustache a brief twist.

“Takes who to know who?” enquired Tommy as he entered the room, John and Finn at his heels.

“Never mind,” Polly waved it off, standing up to collect the empty cups, busying herself with the dishes. A couple of moments passed with the creaking floor making the only sound as the boys left to tend to their business. 

“You shouldn’t waste your time waiting around for him.” Your head jerked up at Polly’s sudden words, but she was looking at you, unfazed, her back pressed to a cupboard, her arms crossed. “Arthur is a good man… most of the time. But he’ll make a difficult husband. If he ever gets the nerve to go through with it, that is.” 

For a moment, you just stared at her, confused, unuttered words forming on your moving lips. 

“I’m not… I’m not waiting around for anyone,” you sputtered, taken aback, as you finally mustered a reply. “And I’m not looking forward to getting married either.’

“You should,” Polly advised you patronizingly. “You’re not getting younger, you know.”

You glared at her – your nostrils flaring, your lips pressed into a thin line.

“I’m quite good as I am, thank you very much. I can take care of myself on my own.”

“I know,” she nodded. “But he can’t. And he won’t do anything about it as long as he can delude himself by thinking that he can always come running back to you to lick his wounds. He is really not as subtle as he likes to think whenever his feelings are concerned.”

“Feelings,” you snorted, crossing your arms and raising your chin stubbornly. What was it with everyone and their need to pry into the lives of others? As though it was or would ever be _their_ business. “Can’t two people have other feelings towards each other except romantic ones?”

Polly looked you up and down with a slightly amused glint in her eyes. You felt as if you were a child who failed to learn their lesson and was now being ridiculous in front of their omniscient teacher. 

“When it comes to men and women – quite unlikely.” She drew on her freshly lit cigarette. It took you all your willpower and self-control not to roll your eyes. 

“I can’t marry someone just to prove your point,” you said, holding back a biting remark. You had no intentions of offending Polly; you knew better than that. “And I sure as hell can’t marry Arthur. It would be just… wrong.”

“Oh, but would it, now?” She sent you an enquiring look, arching an eyebrow with a small smile.

You furrowed your brows in contemplation, with your mouth opened, as you wished to say something that would put the whole matter to rest for good but, to your frustration, came up empty. Polly was a force to be reckoned with; she was in charge of matters of the heart for a reason. The fact that she sounded adamant in her speculations didn’t make you feel any better. 

△ ▽

“You’ve been very mysterious lately,” you remarked offhandedly as you were deciding which card to draw from Ada’s hand. “Are you seeing someone?” You got the nine of spades and discarded the matching pair. 

“Maybe.” Ada’s expression was unreadable – she wore a poker face like a true gambler. She drew your jack of hearts and smirked. You got only two cards left, and one of them was the Old Maid. You swore under your breath. Ada’s striking it lucky was getting tiresome. “You?”

“Not really.” You started to shuffle your cards, trying to make it harder for Ada to pick the right one. Or the wrong one – depending on the point of view. Her smile grew almost malicious as if she could see right through their backs – and right through you. She wasn’t the one to be thrown off the scent so easily. 

“Stop staring at me like that. I’m beginning to question your sanity.” You arched your eyebrows, offering your hand to her. 

“I’m beginning to question your judgement,” she retorted, a smirk seemingly glued on her lips. 

She drew a card, and you groaned, being left with the Old Maid once again. Ada looked smugger than ever. You couldn’t believe it.

“No way! This can’t be right!”

“What’s happened?” You’d heard several sets of footsteps approaching, and sure enough, there came the Shelby brothers who were currently looking at you enquiringly.

“Your sister’s happened,” you grumbled with a sulky pout. “She is the devil, and I am the Old Maid four times in a row.”

“I see,” Tommy said, putting out a match with a shake of his hand, then took a drag on his cigarette. “You’ve made the grave mistake of playing cards with Ada. She’s the lucky one.”

“Lucky my arse!” Arthur growled, throwing his cap onto an empty chair. “She’s a plain damn cheater!”

“Everybody hates a winner.” Ada raised her chin in smug confidence and narrowed her eyes. “And by the way, I don’t recommend playing with Arthur either. Gets all tetchy-grumpy when he loses.” 

“Like I’d ever play cards with you ever again,” he grunted. Everybody laughed at that, obviously sharing a common memory. Arthur shook his head, smiling under his moustache all the same, and placed three apples on the table in front of you. “Here. Got a little something for you on the way.”

With a smile tugging at your lips, you squeezed his hand briefly. 

“Thank you, darling,” you said before you could bite your tongue. John snickered, almost choking on his toothpick, and you rolled your eyes at his boyishness. Although everybody else seemed to be also suppressing laughter or – in Tommy’s case – restraining from smiling. You glanced at Arthur who was rubbing the back of his neck, his ears turned red. 

You tossed Finn an apple, and he caught it with a delighted grin. You winked at him and handed Ada another one. She bit into it, giving you a knowing look. You wrinkled your nose at her. The twinkle in her eyes told you she was having none of it. 

“Anyway,” John said after clearing his throat, “don’t let it get to you, Y/N. You’re not really old for a maid.”

That gained him a chuckle from Tommy and a pointed look from Arthur. Ada just rolled her eyes, muttering something like ‘typical’.

“Thanks, John.” You laughed, not thinking much of it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You turned to Arthur with a soft smile and raised your apple as if it was a drink, expressing your cheers. 

△ ▽

When you came by the Garrison later, you found Arthur sitting alone at the bar, no sign of Harry or Grace. They must be filling the storage in the back for the evening, you figured. 

“I’m sorry,” he said to you without looking, downing a glass of whiskey. 

You slipped onto the chair next to him, trying to recall anything he’d done that he could consider worth apologising for.

“Whatever for?” You finally asked, feeling too tired to guess any longer. 

“About earlier,” he elaborated, rubbing his eyebrow. “For everyone’s taking the piss out of your slip.”

“It wasn’t a slip.” You propped your head up on your hand as your elbow rested on the bar. You arched an eyebrow, fighting hard to suppress a smile tugging at your lips at the incredulous look he gave you. “Walking about with treats in your pockets is more in character of a darling than of a fucking gangster.” You rolled your eyes. “I just called it like I saw it. Besides,” you pointed out, “you’re calling me ‘dear’ and whatnot all the time so since then has it become an issue exactly?” You shrugged. His siblings were taking the piss like some twelve-year-olds, and it would be no wonder were they to chant some silly rhymes to top all that childish behaviour. “It’s just goddamn words. Who cares?”

For a moment, he eyed you doubtfully.

“I guess you’re right,” he sighed then.

You smirked.

“I usually tend to be.”

He chuckled.

“So, we’re good, aye?” You could sense that he was referring not only to that morning but also to what had happened between you earlier in the alley. 

You reassured him with a deliberate nod.

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t be.”

He stroked his moustache for just a moment of contemplation before nodding as well and pouring you both a drink. Shortly after that, he left, alluding to some business he had to attend to, giving you a pat on the head as he went past and to the door.

You weren’t planning on staying at the Garrison till a typical evening busy time, but it turned out to be not so busy – rather slow, really, – and it was nice for a change because it meant that you could actually hear your own thoughts as you were chatting casually with Harry and Grace who were serving guests with shots of rum, whiskey and whatever else they wished for. Such opportunities came rarely and felt so surprisingly fresh and new in those recent years after the war that you were eager to seize every one of them just to sit back for once and to talk about everything and nothing as people usually did when they came to a pub for a glass of beer or something stronger. It was the very essence of normality as you once knew it, and everyone longed for it.

At some point, Tommy came, causing a bit of panic among the guests – and the staff – who always felt almost holy awe in his imposing and somewhat oppressing presence. You nodded at him with a hint of a smile, and – though barely noticeably – he returned the gesture. Well, you supposed they were right to fear him. They would be stupid not to. Tommy Shelby was a dangerous man, no doubt.

“Enjoying your evening?” He enquired casually after ordering himself a drink which was obviously on the house as usual. He cast a lingering side-glace at Grace who placed a glass of rum in front of him, and you could almost see the wheels turning in his head before he dismissed whatever thought he might have had. 

“As a matter of fact, I am.” The corners of your mouth turned up just a bit. “She has a good heart, that one.”

“Who?” He asked obliviously.

“The barmaid. Grace.”

He gave you a pointed look.

“She is good at her job, yes.” He pretended not to have grasped your meaning.

With a low chuckle, you clicked your tongue. If he liked to fool himself, there wasn’t much anyone could do about it. Tommy, as all the other proud members of the Shelby family, was stubborn as hell when he had made up his mind. Changing it was like rushing in front of a moving train in an attempt to stop it. In other words, it was a fool’s errand, and you liked to think that you were anything but a fool.

It hadn’t been quiet for much longer as Inspector Campbell chose that same evening to show up at the Garrison for a chance of a personal acquaintance with the leader of the infamous Peaky Blinders. You could feel your blood boil promptly. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Grace shifting her weight uneasily.

“I don’t think we’ve officially met.” Tommy stood up at the sight, putting his hands in his pockets. “Thomas Shelby.” By the look of him, one could have thought that he had planned all of this. You wondered if it was actually the case. 

“Chief Inspector Campbell,” he introduced himself as well though there was hardly any need, considering that both men were rather famous – even if for all the different reasons. They didn’t shake hands. 

“Yes.” There was a dangerous glint in Tommy’s eyes. “I’ve heard of you.”

“So have I,” stated the inspector with a short nod. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself in these parts, Mr Shelby.”

Tommy snorted but didn’t say anything about that not so subtle hint.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He enquired excruciatingly politely. Now everybody was watching the scene unfold with close attention, but you were primarily focused on the inspector, scrutinizing him, with your eyes slightly narrowed. 

Campbell squared his shoulders.

“As much as I would have appreciated to have met you on neutral ground, I wanted to take a look at where and with whom you choose to spend your time.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Your invitation must have got lost in the mail.” Tommy’s face was impenetrable while Campbell’s reddened in righteous indignation which made your teeth gnash despite your will.

“With all due respect, which is none, I think Mr Shelby here is nicely asking you to go to hell, sir.” The words fell from your lips before you realised you were speaking so you hadn’t, in fact, had any chance to stop yourself from drawing everyone’s attention to you. _Bloody hell_. You had obviously had one too many drinks that night, hadn’t you?

Campbell pursed his lips, frowning as he measured you up.

“And you are?..” 

“None of your concern, Inspector.” Tommy cut you out before you could even open your mouth, pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture that just screamed: _Shut up. You’ve done enough already._ “Respectfully.” It could sound mockingly, but he kept a straight face. “I suggest we take our meeting elsewhere more private where we could proceed undisturbed.”

Giving you one last examining look, Inspector Campbell turned to take his leave. You raised your chin, showing him that you couldn’t care less. You got a dirty look from Tommy before he followed the inspector out of the pub. When they both were out of sight, you put your elbows on the bar, covering your face with your hands, with a frustrated sigh.

△ ▽

You were sitting on a swing a few streets away from your home while Arthur was standing beside you, leaning against one of its poles as he was pushing you back and forth. You drew your head back to look at the pale stars. All was pleasantly silent around you as though you’d escaped into a different dimension where there was no city, no noise, no people. Just the two of you and the rhythmical creak of the swaying swing. 

You must have thrown your head too far because the next thing you knew was that you’d lost your balance and would have fallen off the swing, ungraciously landing on your butt; on top of that you were feeling dizzy after your eventful night at the pub. Luckily for you, Arthur’s reflexes were still on point so he spared you the embarrassment, having caught you before too late. 

“Easy there. No more swinging for you tonight, I guess.”

You put on a fake pout, and he laughed lowly and deeply, stroking your arms as he moved away after steadying you on the swing. Then his face turned serious – almost grim – all of a sudden.

“What the hell were you thinking?” He asked with a frown. You didn’t need him to elaborate to know what he was talking about. With a sigh, you raised your palm to your forehead, but the gesture was brief as you had to grip onto on the ropes of the swing to prevent another likely fall.

“I… wasn’t exactly thinking,” you grudgingly admitted. “I rather acted on an impulse.”

You could tell that he wasn’t exactly impressed. In fact, he was looking angrier by the minute.

“And what impulse that might have been? To get on that copper’s blacklist? You have a death wish or something?” 

“He came into the fucking Garrison!” You glared at him. “What was I supposed to do?”

He shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears. Did he really have to spell it out for you of all people?

“You were supposed not to attract his attention so that he won’t put you down as a Blinders sympathiser. You were supposed to fucking stay out of this!”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I _am_ a fucking sympathiser! I was born into this life, same as you.” You stamped your foot in exasperation, which made the swing quiver, and you tightened your grip on the ropes, experiencing a wave of nausea. The middle of a heated argument wouldn’t be the best time to throw up, would it now? You were determined to get him to hear you out. “So forgive me if I haven’t been able to ‘stay out of this’, especially after I had to stitch you up after the most wonderful job he’d done.” Your voice was slightly trembling with indignation. You were profoundly vexed. “He beat the shit out of you, Arthur. Am I supposed to be okay with that too?”

“Well, you didn’t fucking _have_ to do anything for me!” He threw up his hands in the air.

You stared at him, with your lips parted in shock. _Really?_ Didn’t he take a blind bit of notice of what you’d been saying? You couldn’t believe him.

“Of course, I did,” you huffed. “And it’s not even the point.” You sent him a cross look, pressing your lips into a thin line, your knuckles white around the swing’s ropes.

His mouth opened – he wanted to tell you something, words were ready to escape, – but then he closed it shut, changing his mind. Maybe it was for the better. You weren’t sure he wouldn’t have said something you’d both regret – he had a way of blurting out things he didn’t mean when he was angry. They still stung, though. You let out a small sigh, anticipating another explosion any minute now. 

It didn’t come.

He reached out a hand but didn’t touch you so it just hung in the air like those words he hadn’t given voice to. He looked lost for a second, then turned around, showing you his back. When he faced you a couple of moments later, he had already composed himself.

“All right, can we forget about all that for a minute?” He scratched his cheek, sounding unbelievably unruffled, with close to no sight of a temper. “I have a question I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

Raising your guard, you eyed him warily. This sudden change of the subject and the tactic looked very much like a trick.

“What kind of question?”

“Not any kind you should be worried about.” He chuckled. “Just something Tommy said to me earlier today.”

Now that didn’t boost your confidence in the slightest.

“Which is?” You arched your eyebrows.

“We’re buying the Garrison.”

“You what?” Your eyes nearly popped out of your head. “But Harry would never sell his…” You came to a halt, your lips forming a silent ‘o’ of understanding. The Peaky Blinders didn’t ask, you remembered. They said the word, and things got done. Arthur gave you a sort of sheepish look as he watched you go through the stages – from realisation to acceptance. You sighed. “What do I have to do with it, exactly?”

“What you have to do with it is that I’d like you to be my partner. Business partner.” He looked at you from under his brows. “Sounds all right to you?”

You coughed, choking on air. 

“Beg your pardon?” If you thought that your eyes should have popped out at the news of the Shelbys acquiring the pub, you couldn’t even begin to fathom what was to happen to you now. 

“Oh, come on, Y/N!” Excited, he rubbed his hands together as the air started to become chilly, night settling in. “It’s a tempting offer. You’ll be set for life.”

“But I do have a job already,” you pointed out.

“Yes, but you know how these things are.” He shrugged. “That way you won’t ever need anything.”

“I thought the Shelbys don’t deal with partners.” You raised your eyebrows. You couldn’t wrap your head around it quite yet. 

“Usually not.” He smirked. “Not outside the family anyway.”

You frowned.

“I’m outside the family.” You reminded him as if it wasn’t obvious. 

He cast you an incredulous glance like he was checking if you were jesting or not.

“After all these years, you really think you are?”

“Well, I’m not a Shelby, am I?” You raised your chin to take a better look at him. Somewhen in between, it grew almost completely dark. 

“You could as well have been. I mean-” he rubbed the back of his neck- “your father gave up much. It was clear where his loyalties lay.”

You shot him a quick look before casting your eyes to the side. 

“I guess,” you whispered, willing yourself not to sink into the melancholy the thought of your late father evoked in your heart. He took good care of you, raising you all by himself after your mother died in childbirth. It wasn’t easy, but he never blamed you. He was a good man. And like some other good men, he didn’t come back. You missed him, and you were angry at him. He didn’t have to go. He was almost too old. And now you were all by yourself. 

Well, not quite. 

You rather sensed than saw Arthur reaching for you, and a moment later he was cupping your cheeks, wiping two silent tears which you had shed without even noticing it. 

“Hey, that’s all right. At least he was there when you needed him, right?”

“Right.” Feeling silly and overly sentimental, you nodded slightly as your face was pretty much fixed in place with his hands. You decided to change the topic. “So, about that offer.”

“Aye?” Caressing your cheekbones with his thumbs, he looked at you hopefully.

You lowered your voice as if confiding a secret:

“I think I would like it very much.”

A smile beamed from his face. Taking your hands off the swing’s ropes, he pulled you up on your feet.

“Let’s get you home, partner,” he said, with his hands wrapped around yours. 

“‘Partner’,” you repeated with a grin, tasting the word on your tongue. Linking your arm through his, you started to walk leisurely. “It has a ring to it.” 

When he glanced at you, his eyes had a curious twinkle to them.

“It most certainly does.”


	3. Chapter 3

It was well past midday when you found yourself engaged in the long-forgotten activities, running around the street, chasing John’s children and Finn who scattered in different directions, squeaking at the mere sight of you coming closer. They made it their life goal not to let you tag them, and they’d been doing a great job so far, moving like the swiftest horse in a stable, making you work for it, as you became short of breath gradually. Yet, you weren’t one to give up so easily. 

Rapidly turning around once again to try to take them by surprise, you noticed Arthur watching you lot from the distance, with his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Even from afar, you could tell that he was smiling at you so you smiled back and waved, announcing that you needed a break. The kids gave dissatisfied cries of protest but calmed down quickly as Finn busied them with a game of pat-a-cake. 

“How do you feel about helping me out?” You asked with a raise of your eyebrows once you approached him. “Someone needs to teach these kids not to mess with the most famous bulldogs of Small Heath.”

The fact that you still took great pride in that little achievement from your youth years always struck him as endearing, and he smiled broadly once again, shaking his head.

“I think I might be getting too old for this.”

“I’m having the world’s worst hangover, and I’m still in the groove,” you pointed out, crossing your arms, without a hint of false modesty. “So spare me a pity party, grandpa.”

He grunted but looked as if he may be swayed. It had been a long time since he played children’s games and it seemed even longer, but the sight had evoked fond memories of the past he didn’t mind recreating.

“Well, it’s not a kiss chase, but I guess it’ll do…”

“Oh my God,” you couldn’t help laughing at the memory which was as comical as it was embarrassing, “don’t even get me started.”

“Why? I thought you liked it.” He teased.

“You sure you’re not projecting?” You rolled your eyes. “Because I remember how you flapped when Mary from down the street tagged you. You wouldn’t shut up about it for days.”

He was glad he wasn’t eighteen or he just might have blushed. It would have been without doubt embarrassing and just what you wanted.

“Should I remind you of Eddie?” He enquired innocently, raising his eyebrows.

You stared at him blankly.

“We were dating.” Not that it ended on a particularly bright note, however, but that was beside the point.

“So? You started dating after the game.” He looked like he had caught you in some sort of a lie.

You threw your hands up in the air in mild irritation.

“It’s completely irrelevant!” Having decided to end this irksome walk down the memory lane, you hit his arm unexpectedly, shouting “tag, you’re it” before speeding off, alerting the kids on the way so that they could disperse all over the street, while Arthur did what he – among some other things he was not particularly proud of – did best and chased after you. 

You had so much fun; it was like you came back in time and became those carefree children you once were, running around the streets of Small Heath, happy, your sides hurting from exercise and laughter. The little ones were on cloud nine, having not one but two adults engaged in their games, since they were usually left to entertain themselves. 

“I’m sure you can catch me if you try a little harder, grandpa,” you sing-songed, grinning impishly, while briskly walking backwards, keeping a safe distance between you. The kids giggled. “Fuck!” You cursed loudly as you tripped over your own foot, falling onto a sharp stone that gouged a hole in both your stocking and your knee. Not to mention that you grazed your palms on the ground, and now it felt as if they were on fire. Just your luck. You inwardly cursed the clumsiness you seemed not to have been able to outgrow. You shot a quick glance at the stunned children who stared at you in shock; your vision was a bit blurred. “You haven’t heard auntie say anything, aye?”

They nodded obediently. Before you could muster the courage to stand up, knowing that any movement would bring additional pain, you were promptly lifted up, and a moment later you were clutching the lapels of Arthur’s jacket who had rushed towards you as soon as he saw you fall. 

“There is a hole in your knee the size of a penny, and all you worry about is cursing in front of children?” He looked at you incredulously. “They’ve probably heard worse, you know.”

“Yeah, and Polly’s already whipped John’s arse for it, so I’m not eager to follow in his footsteps.” You wrinkled your nose and caught your breath when your raw skin came in contact with the fabric.

He chuckled, but his gaze remained worried and examining. 

“We should take a look at those knees,” he suggested, and you nodded silent agreement.

Despite your insistence that a couple of scratches didn’t make you an invalid yet and that you could walk perfectly well, he carried you into the house and sat you on the table for better access to your injuries which now were at his eye level if he kneeled in front of you. Gingerly, he rolled down your cotton stockings, which were now irreversibly ruined with tear, dirt and blood, to inspect how much damage had been done. Just some weeks ago you were doing the same for him; now, it was only fitting that he should return the favour.

You faintly hissed, but you could tell that it probably looked worse than it really was. He, on the other hand, didn’t quite share your optimism.

“This one will scar,” he said, furrowing his eyebrows while lightly touching your knee near where a sharp bit of gravel had left a deep and uneven cut. “It needs to be cleaned and dressed. The other one looks fine.”

The news didn’t bother you. Unlike many, you didn’t mind scars. You had had your fair share of accidents to grow accustomed to them. At this point they acted as mildly annoying reminders of your general inelegance. You knew for sure that Arthur himself had quite a few. But then again, he was a man. Somehow, it made having scars more appropriate, and you wondered how strongly for whatever reason such things depended on a person’s sex.

“Do you have anything to disinfect it with?” you enquired, turning your head left and right to spot anything useful. He thought for a moment.

“I believe there should be a bottle of rum in my desk. Just give me a second.” It was going to hurt like hell, but you didn’t have much choice except bracing yourself for the inevitable. 

Arthur came back with the bottle, the last few remnants of the alcohol sloshing in the bottom, and a bowl of water to clean the scrapes and the cut.

“I guess somebody must have raided my stash,” he announced peevishly, placing the bowl on the table beside you.

“It’s hardly a ‘stash’ when everyone knows where you keep it.” You smirked despite the burning in your knee. “And are you sure it wasn’t just you in your most forgetful disposition?” 

“Contrary to what you might believe, I keep track of my alcohol consumption,” he deadpanned.

“Oh really?” You laughed, gesturing at the almost finished bottle with a wet piece of cloth you were washing your cuts and grazes with. “Surely looks like it. Anyway, this should be enough.”

“I reckon.” He nodded and opened the bottle. Despite a bothersome itch on your palms, you clenched onto the table top in anticipation of what was coming, and there it was a second later – an instant, sharp burn of alcohol meeting the raw flesh. You winced, panting deeply, and bit your lips bloody to prevent yourself from groaning. Not for the first time in your life, you wished you had a higher pain tolerance. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, softly blowing on the cut. He placed a calming hand to your white knuckles. “You all right?” 

“Yeah.” Catching your breath, you tried to sound as nonchalant as possible and offered him a smile as a sign that you were doing just fine, given the circumstances. “I’ve had worse.”

“You’re telling me.” His lips twitched upwards at the corners as he looked up at you. “You were one fast but damn clumsy kid. Always wanted to keep up with us boys.”

“I did my best to keep your egos from overstretching.” The hint of a smile lingered on your face as you reminisced on the past memories. “Last time I got hurt playing a game, you were so damn angry,” you said then thoughtfully, furrowing your brow in slight puzzlement which came over you at the recollection.

His face clouded over as he thought back to the day you were referring to. The images in his head were still vivid as if it was yesterday.

“Because it was stupid,” was all he said. Such terseness was way more typical of a post-war Tommy and in Arthur’s case meant that something was stirring him up. He stood up and picked up the bottle, emptying the last drops on your scratched palms, which made you whimper with a twinge of pain. After that, he lowered it on the table and looked you up and down examiningly. 

“It wasn’t exactly my fault,” you pointed out, bringing your hands to your mouth to blow on them to soothe the stinging feeling. “Those sacks of wool were sitting there forever.”

“Except for that day you decided to drop yourself on them.” His relaxed yet stern expression was deeply unsettling, and you felt the childish need to win the argument you had lost once already. 

“As if you haven’t done anything stupid for a dare,” you grumbled, dressing the cut before pulling up the stockings. The way he had hauled you over the coals bothered you to that day even though you’d remembered it now by pure chance.

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair in an unconscious gesture.

“I do stupid things every day. It doesn’t mean you should too.”

“I thought we’d already cleared it up that you can’t tell me what to do.” It sounded way harsher than you intended, and you immediately regretted it, wishing that you had bitten your tongue. Still, you meant it; you were free to make any choice possible whether he or anybody else liked it or not.

“I’m yet to meet anyone who bloody can,” he grunted, then stared at you for several long moments, contemplating. He spoke slowly, weighing his words. “I was so fucking mad that day because it was the first time I’d come near to losing someone since mum died.” He chewed on his cheek, uncomfortable with his unplanned confession. It wasn’t something he spoke of freely: it was too much too handle and revealed more than he’d like. “I didn’t mean to lash out at you the way I did. It was just that… You didn’t even think about it. You just jumped.” He looked bewildered; he still couldn’t understand what had got into you. Granted, you were bold but never reckless. “You could have died.” 

Your expression drastically changed into one of sorrow, and you mentally kicked yourself for not putting it together sooner. You must definitely be thick, and now you were feeling guilty as hell.

“But I didn’t,” you reminded him in a soft voice and cautiously slid off the table, trying not to bend your knee so that you wouldn’t mess up the bandage. He moved to help you, but, with a wave, you indicated that it was all right, so he just shifted in an ungainly manner and stayed where he was. 

“You could have,” he repeated with conviction, probably because he didn’t quite know what else to say and not saying anything at all felt too awkward after such a rare instance of emotional honesty. 

It took you several seconds longer to close the short distance between you as you were moving slower than usual, but you managed and looked up at him with a warm little smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. 

“I know it was stupid, and I shouldn’t have done it, and Peter could have just shoved it – bold of him to assume that I would back out just because I’m a girl, by the way,” you rapidly uttered, rolling your eyes in revived annoyance. “But you know what? I was never afraid of anything when you were around.” You traced an almost healed cut under his eye with a light touch and broadened your smile as you let your hand linger on his cheek. “It hasn’t changed.”

He swallowed.

“You’re putting too much faith in me.” 

He didn’t forget how helpless he felt then, the thought of you dying on his watch made his blood chill, filling him with dread he would have liked not to experience ever again but somehow seemed to be almost constantly forced to since everything went to shit both in the country and in the family. He wasn’t a feeble man by nature; he had just been feeling more and more useless lately. He didn’t see how he could possibly save anyone if he was doing such a miserable job for himself.

As he wouldn’t meet your gaze, you tilted your head a bit and lifted his chin with your free hand. He reluctantly locked his eyes with yours, and all you could see there was confusion, struggle and somewhat too much like despair.

Your heart ached. 

“You have never let me down,” you said, and so did his. 

He would have laughed at the bitter irony if he didn’t think that you might just punch him in the face. 

“Now that most definitely can’t be the truth,” he chuckled.

“Are you accusing me of lying?” You raised your eyebrows, smiling that damned smile of yours that did unspeakable things to his stomach, with you being none the wiser. 

“No.” Thinking that perhaps he wouldn’t feel as if he was being gutted if he didn’t have to see you, he closed his eyes and leaned into your touch. “Maybe you don’t know me like you think you do.”

Every now and then, he toyed with the idea of what might have been if it was actually meant to be. 

“Maybe I just know you better than you know you.” 

As your eyes met once again, it very much felt like it was. He placed his hands on your hips both to steady you just in case and to keep you close for a while longer. 

The residual buzz in your head moved down to your stomach. An infinite number of possibilities flashed right before your eyes in a split second, causing an unprompted increase in your heart rate. And you didn’t even have to do anything except to lean just a bit forward…

“No, I won’t!”

“You will.”

“No!”

Katie stuck out her tongue at her brother who looked extremely distressed by whatever she must have told him before the kids barged into the house. You took a considerable step back promptly, turning your attention to the children and away from what it shouldn’t be focused on. You felt a faint blush creep up your cheeks.

“What’s the matter?” You asked firmly, trying to hide your embarrassment. Arthur rubbed his nose briefly before digging his hands in his pockets.

Little George ran to you and clutched your leg, which made you wince in pain. Puzzled and worried, you looked between him and Katie who was now sheepishly poking the wooden floor with her toe.

“I don’t want to become a midge,” he mumbled, with his face pressed into your ankle. 

“What?” Your brows furrowed, and you glanced at Arthur who just shrugged, looking mildly amused. 

The child sniffed.

“I swallowed a midge, and Katie said that now I’ll turn into one.” He sounded as if he was on the verge of crying. “But I didn’t mean to! I don’t want to!”

“Oh, George, you won’t turn into a midge.” 

“Really?” Detaching himself from your leg, he looked up at you for confirmation, with his eyes full of hope and unspilt tears. You smiled.

“Really,” you assured him, tousling his hair. “It’s absolutely impossible no matter what Katie says.” You sent a strict look her way, and her gaze hit the floor. “You shouldn’t fool your brother like that. It isn’t nice.”

“Yes, Aunt Y/N,” she said. Then she risked a glance at you. “How’s your knee?”

“It’s fine, thank you.” You smiled widelier, touched by the child’s concern. “Your uncle helped me great deal. Soon, it’ll be as good as new.”

Katie nodded, and then both children disappeared into the street to join the others. You let out a loud sigh, watching them go, and raised your palm to your forehead. 

“I have no idea how Polly even do that.”

“Do what?” Arthur had spoken for the first time since you were interrupted. 

“Raising a second generation of Shelbys. I would have long gone off the rails by now.” 

“Who says she hasn’t?” He joked, getting an elbow to his ribs from you as a warning to watch it, which he just shrugged off. “Anyway, it seems like you have a magic touch.”

“Oh please,” you scoffed in disbelief, but he knew he was right. Seeing you handling John’s children left no doubt in his mind that you could manage anything thrown your way. 

It also made him wonder.

△ ▽

“I can’t believe you eloped.” You shook your head, bringing a cup of freshly brewed tea to your lips. “A little heads-up would’ve been nice.”

Ada laughed at that but gave you an apologetic look, placing her hands on her already protruding belly. 

She had been hesitant to let you in at first, but you persisted in knocking, not showing any signs that you were about to give it up any time soon, so she had to give in or else you would have alarmed all the neighbours. You told her that you’d got the address from Polly and swore that her brothers didn’t know where she lived now or that you were going to visit. That seemed to calm her enough to actually invite you for a cup of tea and an overdue girl’s chat. 

“Sorry. Next time,” she joked, but then her face fell.

“Troubles in paradise?” You guessed.

She nodded.

“We kind of fell out,” she huffed. “And the fact that I’m getting as large as Charlie’s barge doesn’t make me feel any happier.”

“You’ll get there,” you tried to reassure her. “You love each other, don’t you?”

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell,” she grumbled. “But yeah, I believe we do.”

You smiled.

“Then you both and the baby will be just fine.”

Hugging her belly, she posed an unexpected question.

“Will you?” 

“You know me.” You shrugged. “I’ll manage.” 

Ada furrowed her brow in concentration and bit her lip.

“Thank you, by the way, for saying what you said to me then. At the time, it felt as if you were the only one who didn’t push me to make the decision _they_ wanted and not the decision _I_ needed.”

“I didn’t do anything,” you argued. “In the end, you figured it all out yourself.”

She shook her head.

“For a second there, Polly had me convinced it would be for the better.” 

“Polly is a smart woman, but even she doesn’t know everything,” you said.

“I would have most likely gone with it if Freddie hadn’t shown up when he did.” Ada paused. Her bottom lip quivered, but she quickly pulled herself together. “Then I would have never been able to look him in the eye ever again.”

“So it’s Tommy who you need to thank then,” you pointed out with a small smile.

“Like hell,” she said with a snort of laughter. “He is the reason Freddie’s barely talking to me, and when he does, he calls me a fucking Shelby even though I’m a bloody Thorne now.” 

“I’m sure he would be very pleased to hear that he doesn’t need to see you to get under your skin.” You laughed lightly as well. “He may be worried he’s losing his touch.”

Ada rolled her eyes.

“You’re so lucky you’re an only child you don’t even know it.”

That made you snort skeptically.

“Doesn’t actually feel like it. Since almost every man assumes your brothers will act like _my_ brothers and will cut them to pieces and throw them in the cut or something.” There was a time when that fact drove you up the wall, but you had long come to terms with it since then. Now you found it only slightly irritating – like an annoying itch that wouldn’t go away no matter what. “Most of the time, if I really want to have some action, I have to go to places where no one has heard of them. And nowadays, there aren’t so many here in Birmingham.”

“Now you know my pain.” She sighed, but then a smile beamed from her face. “So tell me how they are.”

You felt a smile tugging at your lips despite your will. Ada would never admit it, but she missed her family, and that was one of the reasons why you were actually here. Well, that and the fact that you missed her as well. After all, Ada was your friend too. 

“Oh, same old, you know. Finn wants to be just like his brothers, which drives Pol crazy when Tommy doesn’t. John seems a bit troubled from time to time, but he lets on that everything’s all right, so it’s really hard to guess if something’s bothering him or if he’s just in low spirits. As for Tom – well, you know how he is now. Even Tommy doesn’t know what’s going on in Tommy’s head anymore.” You shrugged. Leaning forward with a mysterious smile on your lips, you dropped your voice like a conspirator sharing top secret information. “I think he may be in love.” 

“You’re kidding, right?” Ada shrieked, giving you a skeptical look, but clapped her hands in excitement. “Who on earth with?”

“Grace the barmaid,” you said. “But these are only my speculations, nothing concrete there. Tommy’s hard to read, so it might just as well be what he claims it is, which is nothing.”

“But you don’t believe it,” she guessed.

“Well, he did change the topic all too swiftly when I tried to call him out the other night.” You laughed a short laugh, shaking your head a little. “You can imagine how well it went.”

Ada giggled.

“It’s about damn time,” she said. “If we’re lucky enough and he doesn’t screw this up, maybe he’ll stop being such a pain in the arse.” Then, seemingly having remembered something, she looked at you with a knowing smile. “I hear the boys have bought the Garrison, and someone’s got a generous offer.” 

“Hell if I know how it happened,” you said with a laugh. “One minute I’m being scolded like a naughty child, and the next – promoted to a half-pub owner.”

“I know very well how,” she smirked. “The only surprise here is that Arthur didn’t pop the other question while he was at it.”

“Ada!” you exclaimed in amazement. You wondered if you’d ever hear the end of it. 

“What?” she enquired, tilting her head in mock innocence. 

You shot her a pointed stare.

“Stop it.” 

“Sorry, I can’t,” she deadpanned. “I happen to have eyes and not to be a complete moron. You two, on the other hand…” She gave you a masterly eye-roll. “Helpless.” Her words had definitely irked you, and you sighed heavily, which prompted her to send you an almost pitying look. “Sometimes your total obliviousness just blows my mind.”

Dear Lord, not a repeat of your conversation with Polly.

“Okay, now that you’ve got it off your chest-” you rolled your eyes, not wishing to explore that topic any further- “Arthur’s actually been pretty much down in the mouth lately, not in the least because of your runaway wedding.”

“Oh please,” she said. “He’ll get over it.”

“Yes,” you nodded slowly, reflecting on the recent events. “I guess he’s been feeling cut-off from the family business since Tommy took over. Your wedding was just the last blow.”

The problem was that, as the oldest male, he was supposed to be in charge. Since that role had been assumed by Tommy, he felt that he had failed in fulfilling his duty in the eyes of society, his family and himself, and it took its toll on him, even though he was reluctant to admit it.

“Well, if they hadn’t been so fucking hostile to the idea from the start, things might have worked out differently,” she grumbled, lightly rubbing her temple. “Anyway, now he has the Garrison to distract himself with, so he’ll be fine in no time. He’s bloody Arthur. He always cools off before you know it.”

“Yeah,” you mused, “you’re probably right. And they don’t really have anything against Freddie, you know. I’d even say they respect him, even though every one of them would most likely die before they admit it.” 

Knowing it to be true, Ada just snorted, rolling her eyes.

“The hell is she doing here?” Freddie’s voice snarled the words behind you, taking you by surprise. 

You saw Ada visibly stiffen on the bed as she crossed her arms and sent such an icy stare at him that even Tommy could have envied her.

“By George, he speaks.”

Freddie paid no heed to the dangerous notes in his wife’s voice, which made you wonder whether he was very brave or just plain suicidal – provoking the infamous Shelby temper like that. After you had shaken off his startling entrance, you turned to face him. 

“It’s good to see you too, Freddie,” you said casually, keeping your calm. 

“Drop the pleasantries, Y/N.” He scowled. “Did Tommy send you?”

You rolled your eyes at yet one more expression of their new-found rivalry which you found quite funny, really, since you very well remembered the times when they were as thick as thieves. 

“Not everything in the world revolves around fucking Tommy. Or you, for that matter.” You turned to Ada with a sort of apologetic look. “No offense.”

“None taken,” she said. If she was being fair, she agreed with you. Men tended to be blindly preoccupied with just themselves. It was bloody tiresome. “It may surprise you, Freddie, but she’s come to see _me_. Because that’s what bloody friends do. If you and Tommy still remember what this word even mean.” She glared daggers at him. “Don’t worry, no one knows this address except her and Pol.” 

“No one? Really?” You couldn’t really blame him that he somehow found it hard to believe. In his line of work, one must always stay vigilant. You just wished the question of loyalty didn’t come between the newly-weds. 

“Really. A woman’s entitled to her secrets.” He was still eyeing you suspiciously, so you threw your hands up in exasperation. “Ada, tell your husband to, please, dial down the paranoia and have a cup of tea.”

“For fuck’s sake, Freddie, just give it up.” She rolled her eyes. The pointless conversation had tired her out. “Y/N has never been anything but supportive, so there’s really no reason for you to give her shit.”

For the first time since he’d got home, Freddie really looked at his wife, and it seemed to have done wonders for his foul mood, as you watched his features soften and his posture relax. The tension eased with each passing second, and soon it felt like you were on a friendly footing once again.

“All right, all right, I’m sorry,” he conceded. “I might have overreacted.” 

Ada and you exchanged looks which said what an understatement you thought it to be, but it was enough to content yourselves with. 

“Who even invented families?” she wondered in mild annoyance, glancing at Freddie who busied himself with pouring the tea, and a warm smile lifted the corners of her mouth of its own accord. 

He sat down on a chair beside the bed, with a cup in one hand. His other hand reached to stroke Ada’s belly.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” he said.

You watched them, with a tender feeling unfolding in your chest. And you knew that, against all the odds, they would be all right. 

△ ▽

With a slight limp in your step, you were going down the street, meaning to come by the office to catch up on paperwork. Lost in thought, you weren’t really aware of your surroundings. The Thornes’ family dynamic had affected you in ways you hadn’t expected. They bickered and quarrelled, yet clearly loved each other. It was something you could strive for. Or maybe it was something that had been staring you in the face all along, but you chose to ignore it.

“It’s not safe to have your head in the clouds while crossing the street, Miss Y/L/N,” said a suave voice right behind you.

You narrowly avoided jumping out of your skin entirely for a second time that day. Turning on your heel, you, to your utmost surprise, came face to face with Inspector Campbell. 

“Chief Inspector,” you breathed, looking him up and down. “I haven’t realised you had a chance to catch my name the other night at the pub.”

“Thanks to your… friend, I didn’t.” His lips twitched. “But, as you can guess, I have resources.” You nodded – mostly to yourself. You knew it was only a matter of time before he could figure out who you were; you only hoped that he wouldn’t be that interested in you since you were a woman, and women usually got dismissed and underestimated, especially by men in power. You must have really pushed his buttons then. “Going for a walk? Or maybe visiting a friend?”

You immediately tensed up at his seemingly casual enquires. Was he just poking around because you had rattled his cage or was he implying that he knew more than you wished him to? 

“I’m going to work, actually,” you replied, trying to keep both your voice and expression neutral.

“In that case, I shouldn’t waste your time.” With his piercing gaze directed at you, you knew he had something else to say. “You have some dangerous friends for such a nice, young lady. Then again, taking into consideration the type of ladies they usually deal with, maybe you’re not that nice yourself.”

Internally cringing at his unsubtle remark, you squinted your eyes at him, wishing nothing more than to hit the man.

“Are you always prying into the personal affairs of people you’ve just met, or is this little chat, in fact, an interrogation?” 

“My bad,” he apologised, although a derisive twist of his mouth told you another story. “Frankness and nosiness come with the job.” He doffed his hat. “Have a good day,” said he and was gone. 

You waited till he was out of sight and slapped your forehead. It sickened you to think that Freddie might have been right to worry about your visit.


	4. Chapter 4

After the purchase of the Garrison, Arthur was in high spirits mostly, even though he still struggled to understand what his place in the family was, with Tommy taking charge of everything and him following his orders, just like in the war. Sometimes it felt that they had never really come back. It was partially true for they were clearly not the same men who left England five years ago, but it was all right: it was impossible to see what they saw, to do what needed to be done and stayed the same; they had to become somebody else to survive. Their old selves died in the mud of France.

The change wasn’t what was bothering him, not in that sense. He could go for days without thinking about it or remembering things that’d better remain forgotten. It was the feeling of disconnection from reality that derived from his ignorance of simple things that were taking place around him which was troubling him most. He was supposed to be aware of things. He was supposed to know the answers to the questions people had been asking him, but all he could give them was a blank stare and an incoherent mumble. He hated to be kept out of the loop.

He didn’t hate Tommy, though. He had been angry with him more often than not lately, but he couldn’t hate him, even if he wanted to. They were brothers in more ways than one, and they would always have each other’s back, just like they always did. It didn’t mean, however, that he had to like everything Tommy was doing, intended to do or had already done without any kind of family council. Frankly, it was frustrating.

That was why he liked spending his time at the Garrison: apart from free booze and despite occasional headaches caused by accounting, he knew exactly what his place was there. He, for once, was the boss; no one questioned his authority. As for other things, such as him being terrible with numbers, he could always ask Grace to check the books after him and rely on you to help him manage the pub’s finances. Yeah, that wasn’t the part that worried him, not at all.

Carelessly throwing his cap onto the desk, Arthur dampened his handkerchief with some liquor he had taken from a bottom compartment of his desk and put it to a newly received cut on his cheek. A stinging burning of the alcohol was, in fact, rather satisfying. It meant a deed well done. 

He flopped down on his chair and pulled off his bow tie as the excitement of a fight gradually gave place to tiredness and exhaustion. Pulling out the upper drawer, he scooped out a couple of humbugs he didn’t remember putting there but somehow knew he would find. It was a hunch based on the previous experience of sharing a workplace with you. He was about to slide it back in when something at the bottom of the drawer drew his attention. Reaching inside, he already knew what it was for he had spent enough time looking at it for every detail to become imprinted on his mind forever. 

It was a photo – a family portrait of sorts – taken shortly before their enlistment. The women were sitting while the men were standing behind them: John’s hands on the back of Martha’s chair, his very pregnant wife looking up at him over her shoulder, a wide smile on both their faces – it seemed that John had just cracked some kind of an inside joke understood only by the two of them; closer to the center was Polly with Finn on her lap; then there was Ada who had become quite a flapper by the time she turned eighteen if a fashionable haircut and the fact that she was staring at the camera with a touch of affected boredom, which made her look a bit arrogant and faintly aloof, were any indications; somewhere in between behind Polly and her, Tommy was standing, with a smile which now was almost a foreign sight on his face; then there was he himself – younger still, with yet no moustache and fewer wrinkles and fine lines, his pocket watch chain freshly polished, although it was impossible to tell because the picture was in sepia. In the span of four years that photo had been connecting him with the world beyond the front lines, he had got so acquainted with it that he could easily reproduce it in his mind eye when he didn’t have the opportunity to take a look at the original which now had some serious scratches right in the middle where it used to be folded to fit into the chest pocket of his uniform. 

He let his eyes run over the image and fix on you. It took some convincing to get you to take part as you kept insisting that you didn’t wish to ruin a family portrait. He vaguely remembered that in the end you had made two shots, but the one without you, weirdly enough, had never come to see the light of day. He was glad it hadn’t; he wouldn’t have asked for a picture to take with him, yet he had wanted to have it as something to remember you by. A family photo was a safe, convenient option. It was a nice one as well. You looked off guard and excited, even though your eyes were cast slightly to the side as if there was something worth your undivided attention behind the camera. 

He poured himself a glass of whiskey and, after downing it in one gulp, leaned back in his chair, locking his fingers over his ribs. The photo kept staring at him from where he had placed it on the table a few moments before. Its silent demand was unsettling. 

Staring into space, he saw the things that had happened intertwine with those that could have. He remembered watching you prep chicken hearts to be cooked as you were standing in front of the kitchen sink while he was sitting at the table, wondering if it was the right time to break the news to you. The boys and he got their call-ups that morning, and sooner or later you were going to find out. You knew it was coming. Everybody did. Didn’t make it easier, though. He knew there was nothing he could do, but the idea of leaving Polly, Ada and you behind and alone didn’t sit right with him.

You turned your head to him, flashing him a smile that meant that you had made a witty comment you’d like him to appreciate, but it was lost on him shamefully for, distracted by his thoughts, he hadn’t been listening at the moment. He did his best to cover up his absence of mind and seemed to succeed at that since you returned to doing what you were doing without saying anything or sending a quizzical stare his way. He went back to question whether he should tell you the truth – and not just about the call-up. There was something else on his mind, something he didn’t like to dwell on for too long, scared to figure out what exactly it meant for you or him, but a very real possibility of not seeing you ever again was threatening to upset the apple cart. You squeezed a tiny heart somewhat fierce, forcing out a clot of blood. No, he decided, it was better to let things run its natural course. It would only make you laugh anyway. It was your common reaction to all his advances – some more upfront than the others: knowing him to be quite fond of ladies in general, you didn’t take them at face value. He did like to hear you laugh, however not when it was directed at him. So he didn’t say anything – for his ego’s sake. 

Nor did he mention any of that later, when all you female lot were seeing them off at the station. With all the people gathered together – talking, hugging, crying, wishing to seize the last seconds with their loved ones, – the process became quite an ordeal. He anticipated a deafening whistle of an incoming train with apprehension – you all did, he could guess, but tried not to let it show. 

He looked over his shoulder, wondering what was taking John so long. With Martha had given birth recently and therefore not being able to accompany you to the station, John had said that he would catch up with you later, after bidding farewell to his family. Arthur reckoned they didn’t have long before departure, so John boy had better hurry up if he didn’t wish to straggle before he had even got to his unit. As they exchanged concerned glances, the look on Tommy’s face told him that he was thinking something along those lines as well. 

Ever so cheerful, John had run onto the platform right before the train arrived, earning pats on his neck and shoulders from his brothers and an encouraging smile from Polly. With a huge cloud of white steam surrounding the locomotive, it stopped right there, giving out a dissatisfied puff. The arrival of the train threw the station into disarray as everyone felt time slipping through their fingers with an incredible velocity.

After hugs and kisses on the cheeks from Polly and Ada, he, at last, came face to face with you. It was the time to say goodbye, but he didn’t feel like it – it seemed wrong somehow. So instead he said:

“We’ll be home before Christmas. You won’t even miss us.”

“Actually, I’ve been planning on getting some rest from the lot of you, so don’t count on me weeping in the corner,” you replied with a cheeky grin. 

You were quite good at faking it, putting on a brave face, but your demeanour changed within a second as you threw your arms around his neck, burying your head into his chest. He hugged you tightly and kissed you on the top of the head, the scent of your hair making his heart pound faster. It could be a perfect moment, but perfection wasn’t what life had in store for him. He had to let you go. 

“Before Christmas?” You looked up at him with wide eyes – hoping, demanding. You had moved away a bit, but your hands lingered on the back of his neck.

“Before Christmas,” he confirmed, feeling shivers up and down his spine. “I promise.”

“Good,” you nodded. You didn’t tell you were going to wait. It was unnecessary, yet a part of him hoped you would. He didn’t ask.

“All right, boys,” you both heard Polly say in a voice that sounded untypically unsteady, “come on now. Off you go. The bloody train is almost leaving.”

A moment later the six of you were wrapped in a huge, awkward embrace. Then they boarded the train, which, with a puff of steam and a loud whistle, chugged out of the station, and were gone. 

After that, when the times came when Arthur thought he just might not make it, he reminded himself that he had a promise to keep. And so, he stubbornly marched on as the war had become far more prolonged than anyone could have anticipated. 

It was a frosty, gray day in late November, 1918, when he finally walked through the wicket gate to the house you used to live in at the time, not having yet moved away to smaller lodgings – later you confessed that your old house felt too big and empty with you as the only resident; it was needless to say that it also brought back too many memories now tainted with grief and loss. The boys and he had arrived just that morning – they were among the lucky ones who had been demobilised right after the armistice; some of the troops were still waiting for orders and transports, and a part of the forces were stuck in Russia with still no end in sight. While Tommy and John headed straight home, he decided to pay you a quick, surprise visit. Despite the ever-present feeling of being cold, tired and hungry, which was taking its time to subside before it could vanish completely, his head was buzzing with excitement that was typical of those who had been deprived of sleep for far too long and overall resembled the kind of psychotic state which prevailed in the trenches while going over the top.

You were coming out of the back yard with a pile of logs for firewood in your arms when the creak of the gate announced his presence, prompting you to cast a startled glance in his direction, the sight stopping you dead in your tracks. You didn’t move, and the lack of expression on your blank face scared him for a minute. Had he caught you off guard? Were you angry? Had he changed so much you didn’t recognise him? It had been long since he took a good look at himself in the mirror. And who was to say you hadn’t changed as well? Suddenly he felt desperate to find some kind of reassurance that you hadn’t drifted apart, that, despite everything, you hadn’t become merely strangers who were only bound together by the long-forgotten memories of the distant past. 

After what seemed like an eternity, a radiant smile lit up your face, and he heard the logs tumble down with a series of heavy thuds as you dumped them to the ground; having regained the control of your faculties, you ran up to him and jumped into his embrace, wrapping your arms around his neck just like you did back then at the station as his own encircled your tinier frame. 

“You’re back,” you whispered somewhere below his ear, and, for the first time in a long while, he smiled genuinely as the realisation that he was home at last dawned on him suddenly and without a warning.

“We are,” he said, tightening his grip on you, although there was still a tiny bit of doubt at the back of his mind. “All of us. We’re back.” It sounded too good to be true. Maybe he was really dead, but then again, it was quite unlikely that he would end up in heaven, thus he didn’t have a plausible enough explanation for you being there. “Told you we’ll get home before Christmas.” 

At that, a soft choked sob escaped from your lips.

“You took your bloody time all right,” you mumbled grumpily, which turned his smile into a full-blown grin. It _was_ real. He was back. 

Lifting you off the ground, he twirled you around, and as you threw your head back with laughter, only then did he realise how much he had missed the sound of it. Now he wouldn’t even mind if you laughed at him as long as he was there to hear it. He felt you tremble slightly in his arms, and for a second he thought that you might be crying, but when you looked at him, there were no tear traces down your cheeks and your eyes were shining brightly. 

“That’s something new.” You pointed at his moustache, with a smirk. “Took me a minute to realise it was you underneath.”

“It grows on you after a while.” He chuckled lowly, shaking his head. “But you did look like you’d seen a ghost.”

“That was what I thought, too,” you said as your face darkened and your brows knitted together in a frown of concern. “It’s been four years, Arthur.”

Four years of stab wounds, gunshots, gas attacks, trench fever, madness, starvation. Betting on when the enemy attacked, dreaming about home, slowly forgetting what life was like before, trying to make up for lost time, spending his leaves drinking with women of easy virtue, wondering whether he was the next who wouldn’t come out of the trench by the end of the shelling. Four lifetimes. 

“Yeah, I know.” 

You silently searched his face for a moment before he noticed a sudden thought flash through your mind; it was in your eyes – like a match had been lit in the dark. Crumpling the ends of your sleeves by pulling them down over your hands, you sent him a small, almost apologetic smile.

“Oh Arthur,” you said warmly. “Happy birthday.”

He simply stared at you, not comprehending, and could only guess that he looked totally bewildered. Was it really today? He didn’t remember; things like that didn’t matter when one was either glad to see the light of the following day or wished to die and put an end to it all. But he wasn’t there anymore, was he? He was back to the world where life wasn’t reduced to mere survival. It felt strange and, honestly, so overwhelming he could easily get lost in the emotion.

The soft touch of your lips to his cheek brought him back to reality. His old feelings washed over him like a tidal wave, but he knew if he brought it up right now, you would just think that he got too excited, too caught up in the moment. So he gave your arms a gentle squeeze of appreciation and moved to help you with that firewood. As usual, he let his actions, rather than words, speak for themselves. Maybe one day you would see them for what they were. But if you didn’t, well, it would be fine too. 

Now, reflecting on it a year later, he reckoned he must have been doing something wrong all along. He did keep his promise in the end, although, with a four-year delay, it felt more like he didn’t. You hadn’t mention it in your letters, but he knew he had disappointed you and only hoped that you would understand that John needed to come back home more than any of them, so that was why they would have sent him in their place whenever the opportunity presented itself, which wasn’t very often per se. 

He had intended to make it up to you when he was back, but then there were women, drinking, and the Peaky Blinders business. He had never been so much contemplating as living in the moment, and the need to feel became even more intense ever since he had got back from the war. Though things were steadily improving in terms of prosperity, he was slowly discovering the parts of himself he wasn’t sure how to control. Trying to blot out the waste of the past, he got caught up in things in the present. Once again, he failed you. And though Tommy insisted that he had made it easy for Arthur by taking all the strategic thinking upon himself, even his mastermind brother couldn’t help him out of that particular one.

That was part of the reason why he had offered you a half of the pub. He seemed to have finally found a way to give you the kind of stability you needed that you might actually accept without putting up too much of a fight for your freedom. So there was that, and also the fact that the idea of having you as a partner appealed to him: you were smart and good with numbers, he trusted you and liked keeping you close, having been looking out for you since he could remember. 

Everything seemed to be falling into place, except for that one time you almost kissed him. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but he could swear you almost did. It was the ‘almost’ part that bugged him, that stared at him from that photograph, daring him to finally do something about it. 

To shake off a creeping feeling of spineless impotence, he stood up and poured himself another glass of whiskey, savouring its smoky, peated taste.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” John, merry as always, barged into the room, finally having noticed his brother’s long-drawn absence. He leaned on the door, letting in a babble of noise from the packed hall of the pub. “Honestly, like a fucking recluse. What the hell, we’ve done our bloody part, now come on and fucking celebrate.” He then gave Arthur a suspicious look; his eyes had a slight squint to them already. “It’s not the blues again, is it?”

“No,” Arthur said, licking the last drops of whiskey off his lips. “It’s not the blues. I’ll be out in a minute.”

John shrugged, seemingly set at rest by his brother’s reassurances, and went back to the hall, leaving the door halfway open. If there was something else on his mind, he didn’t bother to share it.

Putting the glass back on the desk, Arthur ran his hands through his hair to smooth it, then put the photo back in the drawer without as much as a second glance.

“I’m a living man,” he murmured, exhaling deeply. It was partially an excuse he saved for the times he felt like reproving himself for being fickle; it was also a reminder. 

He flung the door open and strode into the crowded hall, his spirit immediately revived by its vibrant, raucous energy. 

“All right, boys, the next round is on the house! Let’s fucking celebrate!” 

△ ▽

The gray sky and a constant, thick drizzle did little to cheer up Arthur, whose head was foggy after last night’s partying activities. He didn’t remember much of it but had a pretty good guess how it went. How it always went. He snuffled and put the collar of his coat up to prevent cold water drops from travelling down his neck and spine. He didn’t like rain; it made everything bleak, sad and lifeless – much like he felt on the inside on his worst days. Witnessing the same on the outside seemed like overkill, which, for an Englishman, was quite a predicament.

When he reached his destination, he suddenly became self-conscious about his decision. Coming under the roof to hide from the rain, he stopped on the porch to think it over for what seemed like a hundredth time only that morning. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to spring it on you after all those years of silence. He couldn’t say he didn’t appreciate the way things were between you now. He didn’t want to disrupt the balance. To say he didn’t wish to know what it could be like, however, would be, at best, a half-truth. Maybe he needed to wait until his head was clear to have this conversation, but then again, he couldn’t remember the last time it truly was. 

“No time like the present,” he muttered under his breath ironically, mimicking Polly’s tone, and reached for the door. When you didn’t answer right away, he felt like a condemned to death whose execution was delayed in a twisted manifestation of mercy. On the other hand, a more rational part of him knew he probably wouldn’t be able to go on like this for too long. He needed to know where you stand. Now more than ever, he needed clarity. He needed _answers_. 

He knocked louder, his hand left hanging in the air in a mid-knock, as the door swung open, revealing a somewhat frustrated you. 

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise it was you.” The corners of your mouth turned upwards slightly; otherwise, you looked preoccupied and displeased by the interruption. He wondered if it indeed was not the right time after all. “Come on in,” you invited, stepping away to give him some space, shutting the door behind him as he entered. “Nice battle scar.” You imitated a cut with a gesture, sweeping your eyes over him scrutinizingly. “Ever considered healing properly before getting new ones?”

He laughed lowly, his hand flew to his face unconsciously to trace it; it reminded him of the way you did it the other day, the light touch of your fingers to his skin. 

“Just a scratch from the Lee boys, luv.” The thought of yesterday’s success at the races brought a triumphant smirk to his lips as he shook his cap and took off his damp coat before putting them onto the coat stand. “You should see the other guy.”

“That’s what you always say.” You chuckled, compressing your lips. “So I take it, your war is in full spate then.”

“They got what had been coming for them for a long time.” He shrugged absent-mindedly. “For a long fucking time… Wait.” Coming further inside, he sniffed the air to confirm his suspicion, his voice echoing slightly off the walls. “Are you fucking baking? What the hell has happened?” 

However innocent a task it may seem, baking never was a good sign with you. You said it helped you to find peace of mind, but since you weren’t fond of wasting food, you turned to it only when pushed too far, so whatever it was, it must have stressed you out a great deal.

“Nothing,” you said as you tried to shrug it off. “I just was in the mood.”

Your nonchalant tone didn’t make him buy into it, though.

“You’re never _just_ in the mood for baking,” he pointed out, turning round to face you, “because you fucking hate it. The only reason you do it is so that you can pretend that you crack, beat and cut the person who wronged you.”

You blinked, with your lips parted.

“I hate it that you know enough about baking to be able to come up with the analogy,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I even more hate that you know enough about me…”

“Don’t evade the fucking question.” 

The more you danced around it, the more he didn’t like what he was eventually going to hear. This was definitely not the way he had imagined things would go today, but it sure as hell was a damn good distraction from a steadily growing pounding in his head and ears. 

“All right,” you gave in, with a huff and an eye-roll. “Will you at least sit down?”

He plumped himself down on the couch, staring at you expectantly to let you know you weren’t getting out of it easily. You stared right back at him and took a seat on the chair as if trying to keep your distance. Then you drew a long, deep breath before lighting up a cigarette and heavily drawing on it instead.

“Just fucking spill it already,” he growled, tapping his foot impatiently against the carpeted floor. There were plenty of possible scenarios in his head, and he didn’t like any of them, so he guessed that the truth couldn’t possibly be any worse than his imagination. 

He checked his pockets for a smoke but, with a grunt, remembered that he had left it in his coat. You lightly pushed your cigarette case towards him across the table with a box of matches on the top of it and leaned forward, elbows on your knees, eyes cast down. 

“It’s your sister.” And there was the shell. “I think I may have put her and Freddie in danger. I didn’t mean to, obviously-”

His hand was frozen in half-motion until the flames moved further from the head of the match and licked his fingers; then he put it out and took a drag of the cigarette.

“You saw Ada?” He tried to keep his voice devoid of emotion as well as he could but it wasn’t his strongest hand to play. You knew how much it meant to him, yet hadn’t told him nonetheless. You were hiding things from him – just like everybody else. He couldn’t help feeling that you had betrayed him. 

You raised your eyes but not your head; the look you gave him from under your brows was both sympathetic and disapproving, and he wondered how on earth you even managed to do that. 

“Yes. But whatever you have to say, you can save it for later because this is really not what you should be worried about right now.”

“And what is?” he enquired rather sardonically. Whatever danger you were speaking about, he surely could deal with it better than with the fact that you were keeping him in the dark. Granted, he was doing the same, but that was about business, not family. There lay the difference, and he thought you knew it. Apparently, he was wrong.

You straightened up in your seat, letting out a plume of smoke from your lungs as you tapped ashes from the cigarette into the ashtray on the table.

“I had a nice, little chat with the inspector afterwards,” you said without so much as a sideway glance at him. “He made it rather clear that he’s not letting any of us off the hook any time in the near future.”

“You talked to that copper again?” Arthur could feel the anger swelling up and beginning to throb through his veins. He needed a drink or two – or maybe seven or eight. He also needed to punch something, but settled for stabbing his cigarette out in the ashtray for the time being. 

You shot him a defiant glare. 

“It’s not like I was dying to have that conversation. Or this one for that matter.” You breathed out in frustration, trying to calm yourself, but it was only partially successful. “The point is, he made it sound like he might have had me followed, and if it’s the case, then he now knows where the Thornes live, and I’m too paranoid to warn them.” You laughed all of a sudden, shaking your head defeatedly, and for a moment he thought that maybe you had been worrying so much you went a bit mental. “And I’ve been accusing Freddie of being overly suspicious. Fuck, this is twisted.”

“All right,” he said, running his hands through his hair to collect his thoughts, although nothing seemed to be ‘right’ about this situation. “So you’re saying that we need to pass along a message to them. That can be done. All I need is the address, so we can send the boys round-”

“No.”

He jerked up his head, giving you a blank stare. 

“The fuck does that mean?” 

“It means a fucking no,” you snapped. “I’m not telling you the address. Your sister doesn’t want you or any Peaky boys anywhere near her family – for now, at least.”

 _Her family?_ You couldn’t possibly be serious. He was barely holding himself together as it was, and you were really pushing it.

“But she’s all right with coppers, aye? Is that it?” he snarled, clenching and unclenching his fists, clasping hands together.

Inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, you regained your composure to speak as calmly and reasonably as you could. 

“It isn’t. That’s why you’re going to ask Polly to see to it. She’ll know what to do. Just… no muscling your way through is all I ask. It will mess up an already messed up situation.”

Then you both sat there, and while he was contemplating your words, the only thing moving was the dancing smoke from your dying cigarette and the only sound heard was the shallow breathing.

“If you’d, for once, just fucking listened…” His voice was muffled by the hands covering his face; he had already accepted his defeat and was now just venting out his irritation. “How many times have I told you not to get mixed up in the Blinders business?” He peeked at you from behind his fingers when you didn’t answer, then removed the hands altogether, staring at you reproachfully. “How many?”

“Yeah, you were very explicit on multiple occasions,” you replied distractedly, pushing the ashes in the ashtray around with the stub. “You, Tommy, everyone. Every fucking man thinks he knows better, be he the thickest-” You broke off abruptly, jerking up your head in sudden alarm. “Fuck! It’s burning!”

You darted out of the room and into the kitchen, hoping to save what still was possible to save, nearly getting burnt yourself in a rush while taking the baking tray out of the oven. 

“Fuck it,” you breathed out repeatedly, dropping the tray on the top of the cooker with a loud clang, and slapped your forehead. “I fucking hate baking.” 

Arthur, who followed you to the kitchen after you had sped off in evident panic, was now leaning against the door frame silently; he would not ever admit it, but watching you, usually so tough, and fierce, and collected, being thrown in distress by simple domestic chores was rather amusing. 

“Looks not that bad,” he said, fighting hard to suppress a laugh, while you were picking out biscuits that hadn’t been spoiled completely.

“Shut up or I’ll have you eat all of them,” you warned him, jerking your hand off of a particularly hot one with a hiss of pain. The best idea probably was to wait till they got cold, but he was not about to give you this piece of advice, considering your belligerent mood. He did not, in fact, wish to taste any of your angry baking creations. He was not _that_ suicidal. 

He was, however, genuinely willing to make you feel better.

“Well, on the bright side, you’ve just fried that copper.” He pointed at the tray with loads of burnt biscuits on it, smiling mischievously. “So be a little prouder, will ya?”

“I’ve wasted a whole lot of food, is all I’ve done,” you grumbled irritably, dusting the crumbs from your hands. You looked at him, then at the mess on the tray, then at him again – and laughed out loud, the stress and the tension washing away bit by bit. “You _really_ got carried away with that thing, you know.” You shook your head and then slightly bit your lip in deliberation. “Is it awful that I actually like to imagine that it’s him?”

“I doubt I’m the one you should ask.” He chuckled, coming over, poking at the biscuits which looked more like coals, out of childish curiosity. “Because when it comes to family, well… I don’t think it’s awful. I think it just means you care.”

You tilted your head in a way that reminded him of a confused puppy, but there was understanding in your eyes – understanding and regret. 

“I don’t like that it should be like this,” you said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “But I gave my word that I wouldn’t tell anyone.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re good for keeping it then.” Granted, he was aggrieved by the fact, but he supposed he still owed you one for making a promise he couldn’t keep.

You sent him a funny look as if to check that those words had really just come out of his mouth, but whatever you saw must have put your mind at ease. 

“She’s doing fine, you know,” you said as though you’d read his thoughts. “Worrying a lot. About all of you, Freddie, this thing between Tommy and him… But yeah, pretty much fine nonetheless.”

For a moment, there was silence.

“Is she… Will she be happy?” He hadn’t thought he’d ask that. For someone living in the moment, happiness was a short-term illusion; it was fleeting, passing, temporary, and not something to hold on to. It was right there and then, not many years from now. It simply was or it wasn’t. Period.

If you were surprised by the question, you didn’t let it show.

“Well, there’s a lot at risk, but with any luck, she’ll be as happy as she could ever be. Which, I guess, is the Shelby version of a happy ending.” You smiled, the comment made you both chuckle. Then your expression changed as you cast down your eyes, eyebrows furrowing in concern. “I just hope to God I’m not going to be the reason it never happens.”

“Hey,” he said softly, placing a hand on your shoulder, which, in turn, prompted you to look up. “It’ll be fine. Aye? I’ll talk to Polly. She’ll talk to Ada. And after all the fucking talking is done, everyone can be as bloody happy as they fucking want to.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help cracking a smile.

“And what about the copper?” You were definitely worrying too much, still unable to let it go.

“What about him?” He shot the question right back at you in the most nonchalant tone possible. Now that game he knew the rules of. “I say we deal with him the same way we always do.” He smirked. “Don’t you worry, luv, Tommy’s got a plan.”

“Yeah, because they always work out so well,” you muttered under your breath, but he could feel your posture relax. They were the magic words, he had eventually come to understand. _’Tommy’s got a plan.’_

But Tommy wasn’t the only one who thought of the future. Arthur did too; he just didn’t have plans for it. Maybe it was time for him to make one. 

_Everyone can be happy._ Yeah, well. Why the hell not? They were the Peaky fucking Blinders, and they were not scared of coppers. 

Whatever the future might bring, they’d sure as hell seen worse.


End file.
